Chapter 34
Thirty Four
Matilda
Nearly two weeks after my interview with Sharon, her name finally appears in my inbox.
I hover my mouse over the email, my stomach twisted into knots. The longer I stare, the sicker I feel. Out of the corner of my eye, Henry looks up from his computer, studying me with that concerned tilt of his brow. A second later, he’s standing beside my desk.
Claire from HR is in the glass conference room opposite, so he keeps a careful distance — close enough to show he’s there, far enough not to raise suspicion.
“What’s the matter?” he asks quietly, concern softening his face.
“Sharon’s emailed me.”
His expression shifts instantly — from curiosity to tension. “Don’t tell me you didn’t get it,” he says, voice already edged with frustration. “Let me call her.”
He starts to turn away, and I practically leap out of my chair, grabbing his arm. “No! I haven’t opened it yet,” I hiss. “I don’t know what it says.”
“Jesus, Matilda, you’re killing me here.” His lips twitch into that infuriating, devastating smirk — the one that turns my knees to jelly. “Open the bloody email.”
“I can’t,” I groan. “You do it.”
“What, open it for you?”
“Yes. I can’t handle watching my dreams crash and burn in real time.”
He laughs softly, sliding into my chair. “Move over.”
I scoot aside, eyes squeezed shut as he clicks the mouse. The silence that follows is deafening. He says nothing. My heart pounds harder with every passing second.
“Well?” I whisper.
“Okay,” he says finally, tone unreadable. “This is… manageable.”
My eyes snap open. “Manageable? What does that mean?”
Leaning closer, he scrolls through the email. “You’ve made it to the final round. It’s between you and one other architect. You both have to present your projects on the twentieth — ten days from now. Sharon wants you to showcase how your designs reflect the company’s values.”
“Ten days?” My voice pitches somewhere between panic and disbelief. A rush of excitement floods me, followed immediately by terror. Final round. Competition. Pressure.
I’ve never competed for anything in my life — and I’ve certainly never won.
Henry must sense the meltdown brewing because he turns my chair slightly toward him, lowering his voice.
“You’ve got this,” he says firmly. Then his gaze dips to my mouth. “Now stop biting that lip before Claire from HR gets an eyeful of me bending you over this desk.”
My pulse spikes. His tone is low, wicked, and my brain completely short-circuits. I open my mouth to say something clever, but what comes out is… a noise. A very embarrassing noise.
He chuckles quietly and straightens up. “My place or yours tonight?”
“Mine,” I manage to breathe.
“Perfect. Seven o’clock,” he says, that devilish grin spreading before he walks back to his office.
“Congratulations, by the way,” he calls over his shoulder just before the door closes.
The moment he’s gone, I slap a hand over my mouth to hide the ridiculous grin stretching across my face.
I used to count down the hours until the end of the workday just to escape Henry’s impossible moods. Now I count them so I can see him again. To be near him. To feel his hands, his warmth, his everything.
And now I’m sitting on my sofa, checking the clock every thirty seconds, waiting for the knock at my door. It’s 7:11 p.m. — and Henry Chase is late. The man who runs his schedule like a military operation is late.
I tell myself I’m not being clingy — just concerned.
In the last hour, I’ve redone my makeup twice, changed outfits three times, then panicked and put on soft loungewear that hugs me in all the right places. Casual. Comfortable. Effortlessly hot. (Hopefully.)
When the knock finally comes, my heart almost stops.
“Hello, you,” I say, opening the door.
Henry stands there looking sinfully gorgeous — his three-piece suit slightly undone, tie hanging loose, hair damp from the rain. His cheeks are flushed, chest rising like he’s sprinted here.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” he breathes. “I’m unplugging the phone from 4:30 from now on.”
Before I can reply, he drops his briefcase by the door, strides forward, and kisses me.
It’s not a greeting — it’s a claim. Hungry, breath-stealing, magnetic. His hands slide up my arms, into my hair, gripping like he never wants to let go. I melt into him, tugging him closer until the world disappears.
I flick the door shut with my foot as he backs me toward the sofa, our mouths still locked. His lips trail down my jaw, sending electric sparks racing through my body. Every touch, every sigh, feels like fire under my skin.
“I need you,” he murmurs, his breath hot against my ear.
“Yeah?” I whisper back.
“Always.”
The single word undoes me. My entire body floods with heat — and then—
A sharp knock rattles the door.
We freeze.
“Expecting company?” he pants, my jumper still half raised in his hands.
“No,” I manage, just as a voice calls from outside:
“Matty, open up! It’s an emergency!”
Rachel.
“Shit.”
I scramble off his lap, smoothing my hair and tugging my jumper back down while Henry straightens his shirt. I open the door to find my sister standing there, bottle of wine in hand.
“Hey,” she says breezily, walking straight in. “What took you so long?”
Then she spots Henry — dishevelled, shirt half unbuttoned, hair a mess — and her smirk widens.
“Oh. No need to answer that, I guess.”
“Hi, I’m Henry,” he says smoothly, offering his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
Rachel eyes him like he’s an unexpected plot twist. “Yeah, nice to meet you too… I thought we hated him?” she mutters under her breath.
“Not anymore,” I hiss, shooting her a glare. “We like Henry now.”
He chuckles quietly behind me.
“I’ll get out of your way,” he says gently.
“Wait, no!” I blurt, then instantly regret how needy it sounds. His eyes darken slightly, though, and I know he understands.
Rachel groans. “Oh my god, stop eye-fucking each other. It’s weird. Henry, stay — guy advice might help.” She plops down on the sofa and thrusts the wine bottle at me.
Henry gives me an amused smile, takes the bottle from my hands, and presses a soft kiss to my forehead. “Go on. I’ll open this.”
Ten minutes later, Rachel’s already on her second glass while I’m still halfway through my first.
She’s been ranting about some guy at work — “annoying, infuriating, unnecessarily optimistic.” — which obviously translates to “I fancy him but refuse to admit it.” Henry listens patiently, offering the occasional bit of advice, and to my surprise, the two of them actually get on.
She vents for far too long. She says something though that peaks Henry interest and he glances at me like he knows something I don’t, but the moment passes quickly like I may have misread it.
He even orders Chinese food — earning instant approval from Rachel — and by the time the crispy duck and noodles arrive, my earlier frustration has faded.
By the end of the evening, I’m tired but content. Henry’s been perfect, of course. Attentive. Kind. Charming. And when he gets up to leave, promising to call tomorrow, I almost believe this could be real.
Then Rachel turns to me the second the bathroom door closes.
“So,” she says, eyes narrowing, “care to explain what the fuck is going on there?”
I sigh. “You remember the awards ceremony?”
“Yes.”
“Well, afterwards we kind of… kissed. And then he came back to mine and kind of spent the night.”
“Okay, so you’ve banged.”
“Rachel!” I hiss, glancing toward the bathroom. “Keep your voice down.”
She rolls her eyes. “So are you two, like, together?”
The question stops me cold. The obvious answer should be yes. We’ve said we like each other. We’ve been together — a lot. We can’t seem to keep our hands off each other. But somehow, I can’t say it.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “We haven’t really labelled anything.”
Rachel sighs. “Matty, are you sure you’ve thought this through? What happens when this ends?”
“What if it doesn’t?” I say quietly.
She arches an eyebrow. “Two good bangs don’t make a relationship.”
“Two?” I grin. “Try a few more.”
She gags dramatically. “Jesus, I don’t want the details.”
I exhale. “Look, I know it’s not the smartest thing I’ve ever done.
Should I be focusing on my career instead of fantasising about my boss every five minutes?
Probably. But I’m tired of doing the right thing all the time.
I’m happy. I like him, Rachel. Really like him.
And for the first time in years, I feel… comfortable. Safe. Seen.”
Her expression softens for a moment — then turns serious.
“And how do you know that’s the real Henry?” she asks quietly. “Not just an act to get you into bed? Maybe the real Henry is the one you worked for the last four years.”
Her words sting sharper than I expect.
And for the first time that night, I don’t have an answer.